Yellowcake Springs Read online

  Hours passed before Rion was fully satisfied. At dusk he sat holding the only picture of his mother he had. It showed her as a young woman, being presented with an award for athletics. She was smiling brightly. It was a clipping from an old-style print newspaper, and although the newsprint was nearly illegible now, he could just make out her name: Lisa Matth…the rest was obscured. Rion had never known what killed her. He’d been about five years-old at the time. But he remembered her lying in a sweat-soaked bed, begging him for water. But even then clean water had been hard to come by. He remembered her face, her pleading, and now all he had of her was this. He had looked at this scrap of paper so often that he knew it was close to coming apart in his hands. Carefully, he returned it to its album.

  3. ‘A Few Years’

  Jiang Wei sat in bed next to his fiancée Lui Ping in their tiny apartment in Chongqing, China.

  “Don’t look so down,” Ping said, clasping his hands in her own. Her palms were moist. “It will only be for a few years.” Three words: ‘a few years.’ A life sentence. “And besides,” she added, “we can still be together.” The emphasis on the last word was as close as she got to talking about sex directly.

  “Why do I feel so bad?” Wei asked, only half rhetorically. “How can I leave you, my love?”

  “It’s for our future,” Ping reminded him. “For our child.” The child that did not exist yet, unless ideas could be said to exist. Wei felt the gloom clutching at his chest – a familiar tightness, a shortness of breath. “I can’t breathe,” he said. “Let’s go out onto the balcony.”

  “You’ll miss your train.”

  “Plenty of time,” he said. Wei stood, his body a tower of wobbling jelly. “Please.”

  “Don’t you want to...?”

  “I’ll miss my train,” he said, forcing a smile. “I just want to hold you for a minute.”

  But then, looking out over the city’s sprawl, Wei felt like he might not be able to prevent himself from falling over the rail. Fifty-four floors of empty air between his soft head and the hard street. It was as though the two were destined to meet. “Just quickly then,” Ping said. “For...me.”

  And so he obliged. Knowing that it would be the last time in the flesh for many years, he savoured the experience of her body, trying to imprint each motion onto his memory. Perhaps for this reason, it wasn’t his best performance.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Ping whispered, cradling his head between her breasts. “I knew you’d pass that admission test. I can hold my head up high to say I am yours.”

  Wei had no words for any of this, so he fell silent.

  What followed was a blur. No sooner than he had dressed, he was out the door, and before he knew it he was getting off the train, not on. Wei wondered if he was having some kind of attack, for his legs refused to move at his command. He was trapped! But no, now they sprung to life, propelling him through the crush of bodies onto the platform. But where was his backpack? On the train? No – on his back. Calm yourself, he thought. Calm down.

  Wei looked, not at eyes or faces, but at the march of feet. His own feet marched in tune. Onward, forward. He needed to catch his breath, to collect his thoughts. A bench. An empty seat next to a sleeping man with a wispy beard and a black briefcase. Wei struggled against the tide. He fought across contested territory, pushing past stubborn bodies. The stench of stale sweat and cheap perfume. Five steps, four, but no! – the space was suddenly filled by a heavy, perspiring mound of flesh. Wei reached out, imploring with his hands, but was swept up again. Don’t stumble, an inner voice compelled him. Don’t try to sit down. Fighting onward, outward, toward the next row of benches. Wei fought for air, for light. And found a space, for a moment, in which to rest.

  Why was everything so difficult today? It must be psychological. Wei was going to a distant land: Australia. Of course he was afraid. But it was a Chinese company he’d be working for, CIQ Sinocorp, as some kind of low level technician. He’d have Chinese workmates; it wouldn’t matter that he barely spoke English. It wasn’t far to go now. He only had a little ground to cover. And look, the crowd was thinning as the trains pulled out of the station. Now was his chance.

  Wei got to his feet and shuffled down the concourse steps to the CIQ Sinocorp window on the lower terrace. It was quieter here.

  “How can I be of assistance?” the attendant asked.

  “I’m here for a job. Here’s my ticket,” Wei said, pushing the rumpled envelope across the counter. The attendant considered it for a moment. “Your identification, please.”

  Wei peered into the scanner. It flashed green.

  “Your bus is leaving at 8.38,” the attendant said. “Take the escalator up to deck 4, platform 402. I would advise you to hurry.”

  “All right,” Wei said. “Off I go.” The escalator was nearby, but deck 4 was right at the top of the station, and he was almost at the bottom. Should he try the lift? No, the queue was too long. As Wei made his way, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud for the first time. It was 8.26.

  He made it with six minutes to spare. The driver was standing on the platform, rubbing his hands together. This seemed odd, as the air wasn’t cold this morning. Perhaps the man was simply preparing himself for the drive ahead. He barely glanced at Wei’s ticket, waving him on.

  The bus was almost full, and yet devoid of the hubbub one would normally expect. Rows of faces not unlike his own. No women or children here. Wei considered the final steps, after which point it would truly be too late to back out.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said. “There’s a space here.”

  He was being offered a seat. The speaker was three rows from the back. And so Wei covered the final steps not with trepidation, but with gratitude.

  “You take the window seat,” the man said, standing for him. He was so tall that he had to stoop. Wei gladly accepted.

  “I’m Wang Sun.”

  “Jiang Wei. Thank you for the seat.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  “I’m scared,” Sun said. “Petrified! And you are a liar.”

  “I am,” Wei admitted. “I’m scared too.”

  “What length contract did they put you on?”

  “Two to three years.”

  “I’ve got five to seven. So it’s only right that I should be more scared than you!”

  “That’s a long time,” Wei agreed. “Where are you headed?”

  “Yee-lir-rie,” Sun said, reading from his own ticket. “It’s a uranium mine. You?”

  “Yellowcake Springs,” Wei said. “Nuclear reactor.”

  4. Dreamhead

  Jeremy Peters was an odd little man to have as a boss, but Sylvia didn’t mind. He reminded her a little of a garden gnome, except that he was second generation Chinese, even if he did have a Westernised name. He rarely bothered her, and when he did make particular requests, it was always in such a way so as to make her want to help him. Simply by turning up to work, he seemed to be suggesting, you were doing him a personal favour. Peters’ office was on the ground floor of the Receptacle, the building where they all worked. His door, as they said, was always open.

  “Sylvia,” Peters said, “please take a seat.” His desk space was cluttered with advertising material. “Coffee?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve just had one, thanks.” And then, to fill an uncomfortable pause: “Tiffany said you wanted to see me.”

  “That’s right,” Peters said. He took a sip from his own cup and put it down again, right on top of a piece she herself had designed. “We have some new workers arriving tomorrow,” he finally said.

  “From China?”

  “Yes. They will be staying at a special facility here in the Amber Zone. It seems Sinocorp has something particular in mind for them. But don’t ask me what – no one tells me anything.”

  Sylvia wanted to say, “and this relates to me how?” but she settled for, “What do we need to do?”

  Peters smiled. “Well,
we – and by this I mean you – are to give them a tour of the reactor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, nor do I. But these are my instructions.”

  “Sinocorp asked for me specifically?” It did not seem possible that she could have come to the attention of her employers; she didn’t kiss nearly enough arses for that.

  “Not exactly. I apologise if I am being vague, but I suppose I’m trying to work out what’s going on here myself. I decided that I could spare you for tomorrow. That is, of course, providing that you’re done with ‘Welcome to Yellowcake Springs!’?”

  “We just need to work on a few glitches.”

  “I’m sure that Tiffany can manage.”

  “Sure. Okay, I’ve just got a couple more things to do. I can finish up this afternoon.”

  “So you’ll do the tour?”

  “I don’t see why not. How many are there?”

  “Oh, around sixty or so.”

  The Amber Zone was busy at this hour, as the commuters made their way home from work. The traffic was all moving in one direction, toward the Green Zone. Giving up her car had been difficult at first, but after two years in Yellowcake Springs, Sylvia no longer missed having her own private transportation. You had to hand it to the urban planners, her husband David frequently said: public transport was outstanding here.

  On the other hand, you couldn’t step out of your front door in Yellowcake Springs without being subjected to constant video surveillance. Hell, Sylvia wasn’t entirely sure that Sinocorp didn’t have cameras inside their apartment. Face recognition software ensured that no one without authorisation could possibly evade attention. There was no such thing as an illegal immigrant here. The only escape was inside her own head, and that was where Sylvia spent most of her time. The cameras were discreet and she’d long since become blasé about the whole thing. When they invented a machine that could read your thoughts as you walked down the street, then she’d be in trouble. But who wouldn’t?

  David wasn’t back at the apartment yet, as per usual. She’d be lucky to see him before seven, maybe eight. That meant she had a couple of hours to herself. Once, she had struggled to fill this time in a meaningful way. But that was before she discovered the joys of Controlled Dreaming State. She had used it in the past, of course, but she had never truly understood how addictive CDS could be.

  These days, Sylvia Baron was a dreamhead.

  Their apartment was messy, surfaces covered with crumbs and plates and grease, but Sylvia didn’t see this. The clothes on the floor, the unmade bed: none of it registered.

  As she pulled off her clothes and got into the shower, her work self washed away. In her early twenties, Sylvia had been politically active. At university, she had been involved in everything: demonstrations, focus groups, strike action. It had all seemed so vital. This has tended to decline in the years after she met David. She saw in hindsight that the period from twenty-five to thirty had been a turning inward. At the time she had thought of this as personal development, but now she wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t David’s fault, either. In fact, as the years had progressed, he had become the politically active one. Now, at thirty-two, Sylvia Baron had become what her earlier self had despised. She was apolitical and apathetic.

  Washed and dried, Sylvia saw that there was a message from David. He wouldn’t be home until eight, and did she want to go out for dinner?

  No, she decided. She was too tired tonight. The clock said 5.42 and it was starting to get dark outside. More than two hours of freedom awaited her. And so Sylvia made and ate a sandwich with yesterday’s bread, put on her white nightgown, and went into the dream room, her fine and private place.

  Everything was set out the way she had left it the night before. The skull cap was partially stuffed down the side of her plush chair. The veil was in a crumpled heap on the floor. And the orgasma had been left indiscreetly on the sideboard for anyone to see. She would have to tidy up later. David didn’t approve of her excesses at the best of times, and if she was being honest with herself, these certainly weren’t the best of times between them.

  But how could he compete? In ten minutes she could meet a dark, handsome man – or woman, if she felt like it – in a club. In twenty they could be dining together beside a pool beneath the stars, and in thirty they could be making love in a hotel bed. Forty minutes from now, Sylvia could be experiencing the sort of bliss she’d barely if ever experienced in real life. And she could do so reliably, cheaply and safely. She’d never get a rude waiter or a dish that didn’t agree with her. No one would ever be able to hurt her. What did it matter that the entire experience was in her head, that the man or woman she chose to spend time with was probably a bot?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. So Sylvia donned the skull cap, covered her eyes with the veil and attached the orgasma. Then she locked the dream room door, dimmed the lights and strapped herself in. The skull cap tingled as her brain received its new instructions. It was as easy as falling asleep...

  5. The Power Substation

  There was an old woman called Lydia who lived at the abandoned power substation on Rind Terrace. Lydia often said that she lived at the hub of the old electricity network because it reminded her of the world that had vanished, but Rion knew that the real reason was that it was about as far away from Gillam as you could get in this brutal little town. Rion sometimes traded the junk he found in the abandoned houses with her. It was hard to say how Lydia obtained new stock, given that she never seemed to leave her grotto, but restock it she did. Mainly he went there to talk. He was on his way to see her this morning.

  Rion had lived in East Hills his whole life, and he’d seen it decline, but Lydia had lived here longer and knew just how far the town had fallen. The evidence of decay was everywhere. To think that at least one person and possibly a whole family once lived in each of these houses! It was difficult to imagine.

  This road, Fielding Street, was now full of cavernous potholes and the rusted hulks of cars. The houses mostly appeared intact from a distance, but Rion knew from first-hand experience that this too was an illusion. It was a different story on the north side of town, where people still lived in large numbers, but here on the south side, whole areas were abandoned. If he broke his ankle, it might be days or weeks before anyone thought to find out what had happened to him. Those power poles that were still standing leaned at peculiar angles, some poised to crash into overgrown gardens or onto the broken streets. The wires themselves had long since been scavenged.

  At the end of Fielding, he turned left onto Winthrop and walked down the hill into town. It was cold and windy, and perhaps there was a chance of rain after all. A few of the shops were open, but their doors were closed against the wind. He could see the faded co-op sign from here and a cluster of people milling about outside. Rion took the back streets down to the riverbank, avoiding the co-op.

  The river, which had once flowed all year round, was now dry for several months of the year. It was normally flowing sluggishly by June, but there’d been so little rain that it was still dry now at the end of May. The riverbed was full of shopping trolleys, a century of chip packets and plastic bags, and even a couple of old cars. In his childhood there’d been ducks and birds even a few swans, down here, but no longer. There hadn’t been any fish since he could remember.

  Rion walked past the remains of the children’s play equipment in the old park. Someone had burned most of it down long ago, but here and there the metal spring of a rocking horse or the frame of a swing set could be seen. The park was choked with waist-high weeds. The bridge at the near end of Rind Terrace was still standing, but perhaps not for much longer. The support structure underneath was all rotted away. There were a handful of old car yards and tyre shops, long since closed. The windows were smashed, the cars plundered or otherwise removed. The power station was further along, toward the southern edge of town.

  As he covered this distance, Rion was surprised to discover that a light
rain – little more than a fine mist – was falling from the grey sky. He’d need a lot more than that to put something worth drinking into his water tank. The whole area near the train station was completely deserted. He could see the barbed wire fence of the power substation beyond.

  Lydia lived in a brick building inside the perimeter. You couldn’t call it a house. She always said that the grid used to emit a constant hum that could be heard from the other side of the street if no cars were coming, but now both the cars and the hum were long gone.

  High Voltage – Keep Out, the faded signs read, but Rion paid no mind. Reaching the fence, he rounded the gate – always left open; Gillam and his militia could easily take this place from her if they had the inclination – and walked past the nests of metal coils in the direction of Lydia’s building. The coils were in poor condition, the grey transformer boxes nothing more than sad wardens of a forgotten world.

  Lydia was a thin, grey-haired woman with a face so heavily lined that she no longer seemed to Rion to be entirely human. Her teeth were actually black. It was hard to believe that she was only a few years older than his mother would have been, were she alive today.

  “What’ve you got for me today, Rion?” the old woman said.

  “Not so much this time,” he admitted. Lydia ushered him into her home and they sat down on sawn-in-half fuel drums at her rickety card table, where he unloaded his meagre stash. This room had once serviced the power grid in some capacity, but now the front part had been converted into a dingy shop.